Phony Petals
by Flashing The Floods
Summary: Hatred is such a beautiful thing. A simple conversation. Nothing more. Perhaps a bit less.


** Author's Note: Alrighty. Here's a tidbit about my life that you didn't want to hear. I was out at the dollar store, buying some stuff, y'know? And I kinda had to pee. By the time I got to the car, I really, really had to pee. So I drive home and whatnot. And then I go in, and of course I'm heading for the bathroom, and it's right there and unoccupied. So I calm down, y'know? But then my dog starts scratching at the door, like she has to pee too. So I stop, turn around, and let her out. I turn back and the bathroom door is shut and the water starts going ._.**

** In the twenty seconds it took me to go to the door and let my dog out, my cousin not only stole the bathroom, but hopped in the shower. And he is one of those people that takes like fucking forty minute showers. The water will be ice cold, and he'll still be showering! So I just sat at my computer in defeat and wrote this piece of bullshit, crappy, irrelevant, stupid, cryptic, disjointed, nonsensical, failing, pointless one-shot to distract myself from the groaning agony in my bladder. ****Beh. I wish this site had a crap category/genre. It would be so much easier to designate my crap if the label was just right there.**

**M****oral of the story is: pee while you can.**

* * *

The door wasn't locked, so Nathaniel let himself in. Crossing the threshold, he was immediately hit with the powerful reek of cigarette smoke and alcohol and reluctant tears. The classic aroma of any cheap bar, save for the vomit (but he thought he caught a trace of that too). He tried not to breathe too much of it in as he closed the door behind him. The living room carpet itself looked like an ashtray, scattered with cigarette butts, bottles, cellophane wrappers, and other trash. Cushions were falling off the couch and the coffee table had been kicked over.

Nathaniel was not phased by any of this, really, though the doubt about coming here in the first place stirred up again. He dutifully chose to ignore it and tiptoed through the clutter, following the trail of it, which got increasingly thicker toward the kitchen. That was as much of an indication as any. Nathaniel kicked a few crushed cans out of the way and shuffled from the carpet to the linoleum. He was not particularly surprised to find Castiel slumped on the floor. Nor was he particularly surprised to see that Castiel was still wearing the black suit.

"It's been three days," he murmured and crouched down a decent length away.

Bloodshot charcoal pools dully surveyed him, found him lacking the worthiness of a reply, and looked away. They settled on the bottle of liquor sitting half-empty among others that were totally empty. It was within reach. Castiel snatched it by the neck and pushed it to his lips, head tipping back as he swilled.

"I'm sorry," stated Nathaniel genuinely, eyes traveling to the haphazard mess of cans, bottles, broken glass, and ripped cardboard cases. It was easier to look at those, because he meant what he said. He was so, so sorry.

"Of course you're sorry," Castiel spat, words slurring into one another. "I'm sorry too! Everyone is sorry! All anyone ever says anymore is how fucking sorry they are! It's making me sick!" He jerked the bottle to his mouth again and noisily guzzled down whatever was left in it.

"You're going to make yourself sick with alcohol poisoning, if you don't slow down on the booze. How are you getting this much of it, anyway? Who the hell is selling this to you?" So maybe he was changing the subject on purpose. Perhaps it was valid.

Castiel scoffed and shot him a look that might've pissed him off if it wasn't so shadowed with defeat. "A fake ID, oh wise Mr. President. A fake ID." He clumsily fished it out of his side pocket and waved it back and fourth.

Nathaniel reached over and slid it out of his grasp with ease, studying it with barely existent interest just for the sake of keeping the subject changed. "You must've had this for awhile. Your hair's still black in the picture."

Castiel squinted at him with a mixture of confusion and irritation. He scooted over, forehead pressing to and brushing down Nathaniel's cheek as his lips found his ear. "Go home, Nathaniel," he whispered tiredly. "I'll only ask once."

He scooted back again and stood up on swaying legs, shaky fingers outstretched toward yet another (unopened) bottle of liquor on the counter. Nathaniel stood up and stepped over, nudging him away. "No more. You're already an embarrassment, you don't need to—"

"Fuck off!" Castiel shoved him back. Hard. Nathaniel stumbled over one of the many discarded bottles and smacked into the refrigerator.

Nails bit into his palms as his hands curled into fists, but he refrained from retaliating. "Look, I know how you feel, but—"

"No you don't! You can't! You don't even _have_ friends, let alone_ lose_ them!" Castiel snatched the bottle up and threw it across the room. It exploded against the wall in a shower of shards and liquid and sent a startled Demon pelting down the hall. He knitted his fingers through his hair and sank back to the linoleum, shoulders trembling.

Nathaniel crept over and wordlessly plopped down beside him.

"He was my best friend," Castiel croaked some time later, face still buried in his hands.

"I know." Did he?

"It's not fair. He was great, he…He could've done so much. He wanted to…"

"I know." Did he really?

Castiel's shoulders stilled and he lowered his hands. His gaze flitted to Nathaniel, deflated. "Why are you still here, huh? Gonna hound my ass to go back to school? Feed me reasons why I should stop moping around?"

"That all sounds pretty plausible," Nathaniel offered evasively. On average he preferred to be more direct. This wasn't exactly average.

"Don't waste your breath. I hate your guts, nothing you have to say matters to me. You don't even matter to me."

"That's contradictory."

"What are you talking about?" The irritation itself was merely a pale requirement.

"You said hate me, but I don't matter to you. It's impossible to have such a strong aversion to someone who doesn't matter to you. You undoubtably hate me, so I must mean something to you."

Castiel stared at him, gaze like flint. "You should've been the one who died."

"I hate you too." Nathaniel agreeably patted him on the back.

"You never said why you're here."

"I'm going to visit the cemetery tomorrow. I was going to bring flowers, but I wasn't sure what kind. Did he have a favorite flower?"

Castiel laughed and it sounded more like a ragged sob. "Probably. He did weird things, like have favorite flowers. Favorite sounds. Favorite poems. It was almost kinda...You know."

"Was he?"

"Nah, he was just Lysander." And it's like the verbalization of his name really stressed the past tense verb, really burnt in the reality that already left a scar. Castiel clenched and got up to retrieve another bottle of something that must've been produced just for the purpose of slamming you with a hangover from hell.

Nathaniel didn't stop him that time. "So you don't know what flower?"

"Nope." Castiel worked the top off with an opener and half-sat half-fell back into place next to Nathaniel, some of the booze splashing out. Nathaniel almost expected him to start licking it off the floor like a dog. "Rosa might know."

"Have you seen her?"

"Not since the funeral." He drowned the assertion with another long swig.

"I hope she isn't dealing with this like you are." Nathaniel rather liked Rosalya, to tell the truth. He liked her quite a bit.

"Nah. She'll be too focused on Leigh." He hit the bottle again. Perhaps he really was going to poison himself. Perhaps Nathaniel should've made another effort to dissuade him.

"Well, thanks anyway." He stood up and brushed imaginary dirt from his clothes. More of a reflex than anything, really.

"Wait a sec." Castiel tipped his head back and gave him a distant, wearily curious stare. "Aren't you allergic to pollen?"

"They make plastic flowers, Castiel." With that, Nathaniel went home.


End file.
